


No one called, until someone did.

by queen_of_OTPs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Blood, College Student Stiles, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Drug Use, I am an angst machine, Kinda, M/M, Scott McCall is a Bad Friend, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, Violence, kinda dark!sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_of_OTPs/pseuds/queen_of_OTPs
Summary: Stiles found that he hadn’t spoken more than necessary since August. Gone were the rambling rants, extravagant gestures, and range of vocal tones. Monotone sentences that were cut with sharp edges, words like knives and tone like venom.No one had called.(Gift for stereksau on tumblr for the Summer Sterek Exchange 2017)





	No one called, until someone did.

Stiles hadn’t always been heartless. He hadn’t always been cold, calculated, and firm. He hadn’t always had hollow eyes and a body made of muscle used every day fighting for his life. He used to be soft and warm and full of joy, but it had been taken from him by one man.

 

One wolf.

 

He had been someone important, before. Stiles had been the heart of a pack, and they had grown. Everyone had been in college, relaxing in the rebuilt Hale house over the summer, and Stiles had grown into himself.

 

He could balance Scott and Kira’s new pup on one hip, bake four pies for the full moon with his free hand, and give the pack a run down of the monster of the week. At once. The only thing that had been missing was Derek, the wolf that was off on a trek of self-discovery somewhere in South America, and Stiles felt the loss daily. But his absence had never been as glaring as it had been on The Day.

 

Scott as an Alpha was a mess. He had Deaton to advise him, but he had never come to see his wolf as a gift. It was always a curse, one he had to live with, and it was a shame. The pack was crumbling at the edges and would have fallen apart completely if it hadn’t been for Stiles, but they didn’t see that.

 

They kicked him out on a rainy August day, and Stiles didn’t look back. He had been living in the Hale house after his dad had moved in with Melissa when they got married their freshman year of college, and he could pack his things up in an hour. They all fit in the back of his Jeep - all his magic supplies, all his clothes, all his books and old tomes - it all packed up nice and neat and he left.

 

Stiles’ previously warm demeanor chilled to ice, and his heart set to stone.

 

He didn’t stop driving until he was four states away and his emotions came back, and Stiles broke down on the side of the road and had his first panic attack.

 

His father hadn’t called to ask where he was.

 

Isaac didn’t text to ask if he was going to come back.

 

Stiles was alone, and that was okay. Stiles could make do with alone. Stiles kept driving.

 

\-------------

 

It was easy for Stiles to blaze his own trails. He’d practically been the Alpha of the pack since Derek had left two years ago to discover himself, and he saw no issue in doing it again, this time alone. Stiles made the necessary stops, but didn’t stop in one place for longer than twelve hours until he reached New York.

 

Stiles had no illusions that he would make it big in New York City. He knew he wouldn’t. Yet, it was a place that he craved to be. His magic thrived in the chaotic energy thrumming in the concrete structures of the city, and Stiles found the anonymity of the city pleasing.

 

He lived out of his Jeep for three weeks until he found a job at a local bookstore with an owner old enough to have seen both world wars. She was old and didn’t speak much, and took less and less hours now that she had help for the little store.

 

He knew the material, and she paid him far more than he needed. After two months, he had saved enough to start renting his own shitty apartment that was big enough for a bed, desk, mini-fridge, and microwave. Stiles, for the first time since before he had been kicked out of his home, felt something. Not quite warmth, but it was the first twinge of emotion he had felt in a long time, and he craved more.

 

Stiles found that he hadn’t spoken more than necessary since August. Gone were the rambling rants, extravagant gestures, and range of vocal tones. Monotone sentences that were cut with sharp edges, words like knives and tone like venom.

 

No one had called.

 

He was becoming the cold shell of a man that Derek Hale had been when they first met.

 

Stiles made sure that he was alone; he wasn’t stupid enough to get burned twice. Not when all he could feel was cold.

 

Stiles learned sign language four months after he got the job at the bookstore. He found a website that had a simple self-taught course, and he learned it in a month. Stiles didn’t have to speak anymore, and he thought it was better.

 

Less chance of making friends. Less chance of being hurt.

 

It was January when Stiles realized that he hadn’t returned to college for his Senior year. Something stirred in his chest, something heavy and hot and sour like curdled cream, but Stiles hadn’t felt anything in so long that the emotion felt foreign, like it wasn’t his own.

 

No one had called.

 

Every day was the same. Stiles woke up, made scrambled eggs on toast, drove to work. Sorted books, made a few spells and potions for clients that came to the antique book shop looking for a spark, sorted more books. Took a lunch break that consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of chips, and a bottle of vitamin water. Sorted more books. Went home, had dinner. Slept.

 

Every day was the same, and there was no escape. Stiles felt nothing.

 

No one had called.

 

One day, something changed. Stiles felt something, one hot day in April when someone ran into him with their bike. Stiles felt anger.

 

Hot, burning, raging anger that banished every last bit of cold left in his body. Stiles was hot and warm, and he needed an outlet.

 

Stiles found drugs. It was just pot, at first, something to quell the anger. But every time he checked his phone, and no one had called, the anger came back. The joints didn’t work anymore.

 

He swapped to crack. It helped. He had energy to do things, but it made him too hot. Too angry. He broke his microwave before he realized he needed something new. Heroin became his new poison, and it mellowed him out. It put him into a headspace that let him believe everything was fine, and let him escape.

 

When Stiles stayed in a low for too long from the drugs, he couldn’t get up. So he started only using during the day, and at night he would fight.

 

The underground fighting ring wasn’t hard to find, and it was even easier to find the supernatural sector once he was in. He was Little Red, and never fought without his red hoodie. He was undefeated.

 

In the darkness of the underground fighting ring, cloaked in his red hood and wolvesbane coated silver knuckles, he was strong enough. But when the light of day came, Stiles was just… human. Drug addict, living in a shit appartment, scraping by on a small paycheck to make ends meet.

 

He still went to work. He ate less, but sorted more books. Clients weren’t as happy with his potions, but that was okay.

 

The old woman passed away in May, and the bookstore was his.

 

Stiles lasted in his drug-induced stupor until one day in August, exactly one year after he had left the pack, he heard the voice he had been yearning to hear.

 

“Stiles.”

 

\----------------------

 

Derek Hale had been in Brazil, trekking through the rain forests in search of something. He found it one day, overlooking a large waterfall with the sun setting behind the canopy of the trees.

 

He found his heart. It was with a boy with too-long limbs and amber eyes full of light that spoke far, far too much.

 

Derek was standing on four paws, feeling centered for the first time since the fire. Stiles was his anchor, and he needed to find him.

 

The search began on Stiles’ college campus. Records said he hadn’t returned for his final year, so Derek went to Beacon Hills.

 

When Scott told him that Stiles had been kicked out of the pack, Derek had punched him hard enough to break his jaw and make it far more crooked than it had been before.

 

Derek spoke to the Sheriff next. Surely he had to know where his son was.

 

He didn’t. Derek barely refrained from punching him as well. The man thought Stiles had just… left. As if someone with as much loyalty and a self sacrifice complex like Stiles would just leave.

 

It took Derek eight months to track Stiles down, and he only found him because of an obituary written in a New York newspaper, signed by an “S.S.” It was written in the typical tangents that Stiles was prone to, and Derek felt secure in knowing that it was Stiles.

 

New York City was a shock to Derek’s system after so much time away. He had been in the City with Laura, when he was young. They had returned to look after the pack land, and Derek had stayed for years before deciding to leave for his own health. Now he was back in the city, running towards something from Beacon Hills instead of away. It was an odd experience, and it kept Derek awake the first night he spent in his old loft after clearing away the thick film of dust over every surface.

 

Derek lay awake that night, regretting that he hadn’t called.

 

He was up and in the library the next day, using one of their computers to try and dig up everything he could on Stiles. He found one article in the back of a tiny online magazine, reviewing _Old Times & Old Tomes, _a local antique book shop, that mentioned the cute owner with hazel eyes.

 

Derek had found him.

 

He practically ran the entire way to the bookshop, walking into the surprisingly cavernous space. The warm scent of old books filled his nose, mixed with herbs and the unmistakable scent of ozone. Those warm and joyful scents, however, were tinged with something sour and chemical, the telltale scent of a drug addict. Derek’s heart shattered when his eyes landed on Stiles’ too-still form and realized that the scent was coming from him.

 

“Stiles,” he said, voice louder than he had intended.

 

\------------------

 

Everything that Stiles had created - walls of empty emotion and false calm, stacks of empty syringes under desks and in the backs of drawers as a too-sharp safety net - crumbled to dust as soon as he heard his name come from that man’s lips.

 

Derek was back, but Derek hadn’t called.

In the sea of his drug-addled mind, Stiles didn’t understand.

 

“Derek? What are you doin’ here?” he asked, his words slightly slurred. Not enough to be glaring, but obvious enough to Derek’s sharp ears.

 

“I’ve been looking for you. I went back to Beacon Hills to find you after I found a few things out in South America, but the pack said you were gone,” Derek said, his voice rich and sad and disappointed, soft tone louder as he slowly approached the desk.

 

“Gone?” Stiles asked, scoffing slightly and shaking his head. He turned and stood from where he had been seated behind the counter, leaning against the counter as he walked around to stand in front of Derek, swaying on his feet slightly, “they kicked me out. Said I was too weak. Me! Stiles Stilinski, boy that ran with wolves, was ‘too weak’ to stay. That’s not just fuckin’ ‘gone’, Derek. That’s banished.”

 

Stiles had moved as he spoke, taking wobbly steps until his outstretched hand and finger were pressed into the center of Derek’s chest, his blown pupils more obvious in the soft light now that he was standing closer to the Alpha.

 

In that moment, in Stiles practically yelling in his face and stalking close to him, Derek was struck with how different Stiles seemed. The Stiles he knew was so… whole. The one in front of him was just so broken.

 

“Stiles,” Derek said softly, “I didn’t know that the pack did any of that to you. Pack… pack doesn’t do that. They don’t push someone out because they can’t protect themselves, they’re supposed to make sure you’re taken care of and help you learn how to protect yourself better. Besides; unless they’re blind, they should know that you’re more capable than half of them. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still pack.”

 

Stiles looked surprised at the notion that Derek would still want him to be pack. He blinked at the other owlishly, lips parted slightly, and he shook his head. “I’m even worse than I was when I left good ol’ BH, Der. No _way_ you want a heroin addict in your pack.”

 

Derek shrugged and let out a small sound, taking a slow step forward before wrapping his arm around Stiles’ waist to steady the swaying man. “You can recover. Let’s get you home and get through this, okay? We’ll stay here, I have the loft that Laura and I used to live in,” he said softly, moving to run his hand up to the back of Stiles’ neck. “Come on, Stiles. Let’s go home.”

 

Stiles couldn’t keep the tears from beading in his eyes. He felt safe and welcome for the first time since before the whole debacle with the Nogitsune. To think that Derek was the one bringing this feeling, not his dad and not the guy he had deemed his brother, was bittersweet. It was a fresh start, but one Stiles wasn’t sure of.

 

When Derek started leading him out of the bookstore, Stiles followed.

 

He had an Alpha again.

 

\------------------

 

The detox process was hell. Derek took time pulling his pain and trying to take care of the withdrawals with homemade soup and cheesy soap operas, and Stiles lived. They worked through the shaking, sweating, vomiting, craving, and nightmares together, and Stiles slowly began to feel more and more whole.

 

By the time that Derek couldn’t smell any more of the chemical in Stiles’ system, the two had slowly gotten used to living around each other that it wasn’t odd for Stiles to wake up in bed with Derek, the two curled together after a hard night of nightmares.

 

Stiles was healing with Derek.

 

It was hard, the first time that Derek had to leave for a visit to an old friend, an Alpha in upstate New York that had requested his presence for a diplomatic meeting with hunters, since Derek had experience. He would be gone for two weeks.

 

Stiles moved into Derek’s loft while he was gone. There was one day in particular, halfway through Derek’s stay in upstate New York, that Stiles knew they were a small pack of two.

 

Derek called him.

 

It was small, just a brief check in, but Stiles cried for hours after the call was over. Someone had finally called him and really meant it.

 

Something inside of Stiles hardened that day. He finally had what he had always wanted, he had a pack that believed in him and took care of him and cherished his existence, and he would do anything and everything in his power to protect the glowing bond between him and Derek.

 

Stiles knew he had to take care of himself and take care of Derek at the same time, he had to… show his worth.

 

Stiles got to work.

 

There was a website set up within four hours of Stiles’ realization, _Littleredanswers.com_ , which featured optional forums to discuss creatures, pages of free information, and requests for business inquiry and personal help.

 

When the website was set up and finished, all within twelve hours thanks to too many adderall and too many energy drinks, Stiles learned how to sew. He took a brief rest, a few hours’ nap, before he was back. Watching videos, reading books, talking to sales associates at craft stores in the area. Stiles got the necessary materials and… well. He prepared himself.

 

Stiles was going to protect himself and Derek, no matter the consequences. He had favors that were easy to call in - people he had consulted before the website had been an idea - and he received enough herbs and materials to completely retrofit his hunting outfit.

 

Stiles had transformed himself into a supernatural friendly hunter in the span of three days, complete with a self-made suit. It consisted of dark black cargo pants with pouches for herbs and powders and the like, hard black combat boots, and a deep blood red cloak made of reinforced leather, woven with protection spells.

 

Stiles got an anti-possession tattoo the day before Derek was set to return. He wasn’t going through that experience again.

 

Derek came home from consulting with the other pack, initially panicked at the scent of blood. When Stiles showed him the mark above his heart, Derek relaxed. Stiles was protecting himself.

 

It was a hard reality to swallow, when Stiles told him he was ready to become a hunter. Kate had been enough to keep him from hunters for good, but Stiles was… Derek knew Stiles wouldn’t ever hurt him or anyone he cared about.

 

Stiles was good.

 

\----------------

 

Four years passed, and it hardened their hearts. Derek and Stiles built a tiny house together, one plush bed in the loft and everything they could want, and towed it behind Stiles’ powder blue jeep across America.

 

They kept a map full of everywhere they visited, and kept colored pins where they went to keep track of allies, enemies, and different species.

 

Derek and Stiles had both grown into themselves. Derek softened in his heart, learning to smile and hug and be open with his emotions. Stiles… split. He was cold and calculated when on a case, but warm and bubbly off of the cases. They were healing, they had healed, and they wouldn’t go back.

 

Their map was void of any pins in northern California.

 

Stiles grew in his strength, both mental and physical. His shoulders broadened, his muscles defined, and his collection of tattoos expanded. Most of his skin was covered, these days, patterned in runes to heighten the magic he had learned to develop on the road.

 

Derek had added another tattoo to his collection as well. It was small, settled right above his right hip, and in Stiles’ spidery loose handwriting it read “I love you.” Stiles’ left hip said the same in Derek’s handwriting. They got them the day after they mated, the bites scarred on both of their throats from the mating.

 

It had taken Derek bleeding out in Stiles’ arms after a long battle with a nest of harpies for them to recognize their love for each other. It was poetic; kissing in a clearing, surrounded by the corpses of vicious harpies, Stiles’ hand holding Derek’s skin together as it knit itself back to the original state.

 

They had become more in tune with each other ever since. Moving as if they were one entity, one brain across two bodies.

 

Their life was on a steady incline until Stiles got an emergency alert from one Alan Deaton about a demon in Beacon Hills.

 

They put their first pin on the map in Northern California that night, and Stiles cried.

 

They were on the road the next morning, ready to face their demons (both literal and metaphorical).

 

On the disturbingly short drive from the fields of Montana to settle a debate between two rival herds of centaurs, Stiles and Derek decided to go the extra mile in surprising the pack.

 

They parked in a field just outside of Beacon Hills so the pack wouldn’t come to investigate, and readied themselves. Stiles changed into his outfit and disguised his scent so that he stank of magic, a rich ozone scent twined with honey and hardwood smoke. Derek shifted to his full wolf form, large and black and shaggy with blinding red Alpha Eyes.

 

Stiles called Deaton. The vet confirmed that the pack was in the back room of the office, and easily assured Stiles there was room for him and his companion to teleport in.

 

Stiles smirked to himself, tugged the large hood of his red cloak over his face to obscure his identity, and buried his hand in the scruff of Derek’s neck, chanting softly before closing his eyes, allowing the tug to take over. Stiles opened his eyes in the veterinarian’s office, bright honey shine hidden by the fold of his hood, and he straightened his broad shoulders.

 

The pack in the room were on alert, suddenly. An Alpha werewolf so tame around a consulting hunter was a rare sight.

 

“Deaton, you didn’t tell us that Little Red had a pet _wolf!”_ Scott cried, and Stiles wanted to laugh.

 

Deaton simply raised his eyebrows and looked over at Scott with a tip of his head, “I believe that I informed you that Little Red had a mate, Alpha McCall. He is taking time from his busy schedule to assist us with our problem, so it would be prudent to be congenial at the very least.”

 

Stiles grinned at that. Of all the people that Stiles had expected to stand up for him, cryptic ol’ Deaton was the very last on the list. “I appreciate your confidence in us, Emissary Deaton. We’re just here to get an idea of what level demon we’re dealing with.”

 

A low growl rumbled through the room at the sound of Stiles’ voice. Even though it had deepened slightly over his stay away, it was still notably Stiles. Isaac whimpered.

 

Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes, moving to push the hood back from his face. “Der bear won’t shift, since he’d be naked if he did. And I’m the only one that gets to lay eyes on that. Anyway, give me some info on this demon we’re dealing with.”

 

Lydia was the one to speak up after a long, _long_ moment of silence. “It warned us, the first time we encountered it. The… the demon was in Lewis Bradley, he works with Jackson at the law firm. He said that the ‘Big Man Downstairs’ was interested in acquiring new hounds. He said that his name was… he called himself Beelzebub.”

 

Stiles visibly stiffened at the name. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. We get to fuck with a high level demon? Prince of Hell, Derek. They really _are_ running out of good little soldiers to do their footwork,” he smirked, looking down at his mate.

 

Derek chuffed and rolled his eyes, knowing that Stiles was getting riled up. He needed a way to get the anxiety and anger out, and hunts helped.

 

Stiles looked at the pack and nodded. “Well. Thanks for the info, kiddies. We’ll be back once your little black-eyes problem is dealt with,” the man grinned, winking before flitting out of there. He had time to hear a weak “wait!” from one of the pack, probably Scott, before he was gone.

 

\--------------

 

The next time Stiles and Derek encountered the pack, they were using… atypical methods of information gathering. Stiles had a blade bathed in holy water and salt  and would… carve a fun little mess into the demon’s skin whenever it refused to answer.

 

Stiles was halfway through his interrogation, Derek dutifully recording all the information and running perimeter on the Devil’s trap to ensure nothing blocked it that would put Stiles in danger. There was rich red blood coating most of the demon and most of Stiles, and the pack burst into the warehouse they were stationed in.

 

“Stiles!” Scott yelled, “what are you doing?!”

 

“What does it look like, Scotty boy? Digging for information,” Stiles grinned, extending his arm to give a sharp slash to the demon’s cheek, splashing a bit of holy water on after, smirking at the scream of anguish and whimpered words that Derek wrote down.

 

Scott advanced rapidly, but Stiles made no move to defend himself. Derek was already running forward and staring Scott down, growling and in his beta shift. “ _Don’t_ get close to my mate,” he said, words slightly slurred by his fangs.

 

“You can’t think what he’s doing is right, Derek. He’s torturing someone! We can… we can reason with it!”

 

Stiles stared at Scott and let out a low sigh, throwing the blade with a flick of his wrist to let it embed into the Demon’s chest, letting the demon yell out loudly. He prowled forward, moving his bloodied hands to press against Scott’s chest. His voice was deadly calm and almost icy cold when he spoke next; “Scotty boy. There’s no negotiating with demons, especially not good ol’ Prince B over here. It’s not in their make-up. His host is dead, long dead, and it’s just hurting the demon. But what I really want to know, Scott, is why you think reasoning is a valid option now.”

 

Scott stepped back, looking disgusted at the blood on the front of his t-shirt before he met Stiles’ eyes. “What do you mean, Stiles? Why are you surprised that I want to reason with him?”

 

“Because, Scott. You kicked me out of the pack without giving me five minutes of your time to tell you why I could make it. I don’t want your bullshit excuses, or your whiny puppy eyes. I want you to realize that you drove away your best friend and brother, let him run to New York and get addicted to heroin, and decided that when he came back you’d try to reason with the literal embodiment of evil when you didn’t give me a second to explain myself.”

 

Scott stood, shocked. Stiles laughed, because he should have figured Scott wouldn’t see it like that.

 

“Just… get out, Scott. Let me finish what I started.”

 

Scott shook his head, “I can’t let you keep doing this to him.”

 

“Get the fuck out, Scott, or I’ll remove you myself,” Stiles said, voice sharp and undeniably sharp. He was serious.

 

Derek chuckled, “if you don’t believe him, Scott, listen to his heartbeat.”

 

It was steady.

 

\------------

 

Stiles’ heart was hard as ice, but it beat in his chest with a rhythm the same as Derek’s.

 

Derek had saved him. He had melted the sharp and jagged shards of ice around his exterior, warmed his heart enough to let him love again.

 

Stiles was still icy and hard, but he was soft to Derek and Derek alone.

 

Because out of everyone, Derek had called.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write dark!Sterek, so it's not really in here, but I tried? There's more angst than dark, though. Hope you love your gift!


End file.
